


In the Dark of the Night

by cutthroatpixie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutthroatpixie/pseuds/cutthroatpixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of listening to ghost stories, young America asks England for a story of a different kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://mase992.livejournal.com/profile)[**mase992**](http://mase992.livejournal.com/) for [](http://hetaliasunshine.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hetaliasunshine.livejournal.com/)**hetaliasunshine**.

In the dead of night, four young boys wandered away from the comfort of their family homes, pyjama pockets filled with pilfered flint and steel, small hands wrapped around bundles of sticks and under brush from their yards. The new moon left the world encased in a darker darkness than on most nights, and only the stars lit the children's path.

The normally rowdy, energetic boys stayed as silent as possible, not wanting to risk being caught outside by their parents, or any other member of the small community, for that matter.

A twig cracked, the soft noise seeming to echo through the air, multiplying in the mind of one of the boys.

"What was that?" America flipped around, looking behind him. "Show yourself, beast!"

The other boys laughed nervously. "Quiet, Al, somebody is going to hear us," the 'oldest' of the boys whispered.

A few minutes, and equally as many outbursts, later, the boys were holed up under their favourite tree, placing their sticks in a small pebble-encircled hole they had dug a few nights before. Soon enough, a small fire was casting eerie shadows across the young faces as they sat down for a thrilling, forbidden session of ghost story telling.

\---

America was the last one to get back home, as always, a fate he sorely accepted, since he lived on the furthest edge of the small town. Benjamin lived nearest to their meeting place, so he was dropped off first, then Charles, and finally America bid farewell to Joseph, and he was left all alone in the darkness of his land.

The young nation jumped, the call of an owl mutated in his mind, becoming the groans of some unknown, vicious, child-eating creature. His pace quickened. Surely any beast that was out and about would want to get him first, before risking going indoors. He was all alone, out when he shouldn't be, misbehaving.

He let out a small shriek when his foot caught on a stray tree root. He was doomed, they had caught him! Who they were, he may never even know, because he was down on the ground, all alone, covered in dirt, and _all alone_.

Silence met his internal struggle. Slowly, America pulled his hands back from his eyes and looked around him. When no strange beasts met his gaze, he shakily stood up, dusting himself off and stepping forward to continue his perilous journey.

The last few metres of the trip flew by, quite literally, as the soft croak of a locust had been America's undoing, and he had taken off at an inhuman speed. "Don't eat me, don't eat me," he begged the night air, hoping any of the creatures seeking him out would take pity and let him go.

Finally, _finally_ , he reached his front door, lungs gasping for air. As slowly, carefully, and quietly as he could possibly manage, America pushed open the door, hoping and preying that England wouldn't catch him. It would surely be the worst of luck, having just managed to escape the horrible dangers that lurked right outside his home.

It didn't take America long to realise that maybe it would not be so bad to be caught sneaking back in by England.

The sound of his dirty clothes hitting the floor caused America to startle with fright. The rustling of his bedsheets as he slid under them made him jump back out of bed and run down to the next room over, deciding that the imagined monsters in his bedroom were definitely more scary than England would be if he woke him up.

"England?" America said, stepping into England's room. "England, wake up." He stepped closer to the bed, climbing up into it and shaking England's shoulder. England immediately awoke, looking over at America with a startled expression.

"Something wrong?" he asked, yawning.

"It's too dark." America cuddled into England's pillow sorrowfully. "I can't sleep."

England sat up, grumbling slightly (he knew _why_ America was suddenly so afraid, of course), and pulled the covers back for the young nation. "There's nothing to be scared of, go back to sleep, America."

America sniffled and shook his head. "Tell me a story, Engwand."

England thought about saying no, but only for the briefest of moments, as the pathetically endearing look on America's face made it impossible to deny him anything, even if England was exhausted from working the whole day before.

"Alright. One story, and then you need to go to sleep."

Cuddling up to England's side, America laid back in the bed, looking up at England as he hopefully awaited a story to soothe his nerves, a stark contrast the stories he'd been telling with the village boys earlier.

"Long ago," England began. "There was a great king, and when he died, he left behind no heir, as nobody knew that he had a son." England paused for a moment, thinking of the best way to keep the story short, without causing too much confusion for America, who no doubt was not familiar with England's history.

"But why didn't anybody know...?" America asked, and England knew already that no matter how much he simplified the tale, it was going to end up being twice as long because of all America's interjections.

"One day," he continued, after a brief interlude, "A mysterious stone magically appeared in a churchyard in London--"

"At your house?" America interjected excitedly.

"Yes, at my house," England replied. "Anyway, stuck into the stone was a sword--"

"How'd the sword get into the stone?"

"Magic. On the stone was a message, saying that whoever could pull the sword from the stone would be the next king, since there was such turmoil over who would take the dead king's place."

America spoke up again, his excitement far outweighing any tiredness he may have felt. "Was the guy who could pull it really strong? I bet he was, he'd have to be! Especially if the stone was really big..." He trailed off for a moment, and just as England had opened his mouth to continue the story, America started back up. "Oh yeah, he was definitely a strong guy, huh, England? I want to be that strong! So what happened?"

His youthful excitement was met with only silence.

"England...?" He poked the older nation next to him, only to find he had fallen back to sleep. Pouting, America curled up next to him, mumbling a quiet, "Goodnight," before being lulled into sleep, thinking of how this mysterious person who could pull swords from stones could definitely defeat all the monsters that waited outside. 


End file.
